Asylum
by Parallaxm
Summary: They are neither safe nor sane. AU mafia.
1. Home

1 - HOME

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**Summer, 1969**  
**Rome, Italy**

"Pat yourself on the back," Romario offered with a wry smile. "Stocks are up, management sacked some scheming wiseguys, and Ivan won a bottle of Chianti Classico."

The sprawling sunset cast the room in a warm bronze light, alleviating the man's pallor. A shroud of intimacy cloaked the Mafiosi, whose tales and times were littered about the room in various forms of disarray. A tower of empty cigarette packs formed a precarious pyramid, built from manifold brands—the Chiavarone boss had embarked on a search for "the golden smoke." Thus far, none had made the cut. A streak of deep black ran diagonally across a round coffee table, telling of a broken pen and a graceless boss. A deck of cards lay strewn about the table and mahogany wood paneling, several sticking straight up in-between the floorboards. The heart pine, weary with decades of harried exits and entrances, clenched the nails fast, creaking under heavy footfalls.

Dino flicked an errant strand of dirty blond out of his sight, smiling as he shook out a Marlboro Red, catching it between his teeth. He threw a mischievous glance at the older man as he lit up. "Chianti wine and Marlboro cigs—a match made in heaven. How'd Ivan snag the wine this time?"

The Chiavarone underboss chuckled hoarsely, his hair and laughter streaked with age. "Basil should've known better than to bet against Ivan in poker. His Mohawk was at stake, after all. Kid's got a brain, but he's pretty damn selective as to when to use it."

Every time Dino nudged the pack in Romario's direction, and every time Romario refused.

Pocketing the pack, Dino sighed. "CEDEF still going for Ivan's bait? Thought Lal would've beat some sense into the poor kid by now. Basil's got other uses for his talent, but gambling's all Ivan has." Glancing down at a card on the table, the boss scrutinized the king of hearts with some bitterness, squinting at the line of his apathetic mouth. He set the card back down and slid it under a phonebook, leaving a white corner exposed.

"We're all we have," Romario commented, his words swallowed by a plume of smoke wafting slowly from Dino's mouth. His wise nature had been a handy counterpoint to the blond's clumsy start, steering the young boss clear of muddy waters. The boss clearly respected his successor, and that none of their fortune had gone to refurnishing the antiquated furniture was intentional.

Dino exhaled, pausing to savor the flavor on his tongue. "No tree forgets its roots."

"How long as it been...?"

"Romario," Dino intercepted, a tint of grim resolve coloring his tone. "It's alright. You're alright."

"Am I?" the forty-eight year-old chuckled. "Sometimes I wonder. Is it better to be caught in cuffs or by a bullet? The latter's a little messy, but far cleaner in the long-run."

"Neither are ideal," Dino deadpanned, saving the moment with a quirk of his mouth. "But remember what you live for. That'll determine how you go."

After a reflective silence, Romario strode over to the sink.

"Hell's broken out in here. I'm surprised the flies haven't hit this jackpot."

Dino laughed, standing and buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. "Guess Ivan's rubbing off on me. Send Brutus for some dish soap on his way back. I'll be out for a bit."

* * *

**Summer, 1969**  
**Palermo, Sicily (Italy)**

"Lavina—"

"You promised, Clemente. Put off the Mafia grooming until he's ten; he deserves a proper childhood."

The armchair scuffed the floor as the Mafioso stood suddenly, his back to his mistress. "You don't seem to understand what we are, Lavina. I'm not raising a normal boy."

"But—"

"Enough!" He whipped around with a grimace. Sighing, he reached forward to grasp her chin tenderly, maintaining enough pressure to be dangerous if necessary. "Enough," he murmured, quieter, stroking her cheek. "You have pampered him plenty. He will fill your cabinets with trophies and certificates; none of the other musicians will compare."

The reassurance seemed to have an adverse effect on the woman, who twisted her face away in irritation. "How can I pamper him when I barely see him?"

"Don't start," the Mafioso warned, catching her wrist. "Do you know how much I spent on that grand? The boy's not even playing Prokofiev, and you demanded a Fazioli."

"He's playing Liszt, which is hardly easy," Lavina retorted calmly, knowing better than to squirm in his unyielding grip. "And you bought it without a second thought when I agreed to our arrangement." She lowered her gaze from the severity of his, fighting the sting of fruitless anger.

Guiltily, desperately, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her palm. "I know you are suffering, _cara mia, _but this is the best I can do. If you would only have me..."

"Clemente," Lavina began warily, her hand squeezing his, "let me see him more often. That's all I ask."

_That's all I care about, _he heard. The silence that greeted her was cold. He froze, trembling slightly on the pastel blue settee. "_Him_," he spat resentfully, tearing his hand from hers. "It's always about _him. _Do you take me for granted? What more do you want from me?"

Lavina flinched, fisting the light cotton of her white dress. "Y—you know I love you... So let me love our son, as he ought to be." She recoiled when he advanced, cursing her flighty limbs for moving instinctively. The pianist forced herself to hold his gaze, to stand her ground while she still could.

"My son is not to be a coward," he hissed. "He's already the laughing stock of the famiglia. The son of a ruthless boss: a scrawny pianist. Do you know what he had the nerve to ask me the other day?" he scoffed, "Whether he could skip training to practice. Thanks to your _'love'_, he'll be killed off first."

The fair-haired woman started, leaping to her feet. "That's outrageous—"

"S_o are you!_" he burst, slapping her across the face.

Gokudera pulled back from the other side of the door.

He jumped when the doorknob twisted, and made a hasty exit through the antechamber several doors down. Panting laboriously, he clutched both sides of his head and leaned forward, breathing shakily. The boy started counting off prime numbers in his head, reaching one hundred seventy-three before the red door opened.

"Get up. You're late for defense training." His father slammed a sheet of paper onto the glass table. "And where's your work? All you wrote down were the final answers. Think you're being clever, don't you? So smart you can just skip the process?"

He leaned closer, reeking of cigar smoke. "Let me tell you something: tutors don't grow on trees. I've had to replace all the ones who couldn't deal with your attitude. Don't get cocky because your collectibles are stacking up. Do you think a piece of scrap metal will validate your existence?" He procured a particularly imposing trophy from behind his back, placing it tauntingly before the boy. Gokudera had won it recently. "This doesn't mean a fucking thing. Ten years from now you'll be dodging bullets. If you pull this out in a gunfight, the killer will laugh in your face and take you out.

"Are we clear?"

The eight year-old folded his arms in front of his chest, glaring viciously at a blood stain in the carpet.

_"Are we clear?"_

"Yes sir."

When he was certain his father was out of earshot, he muttered, "Fuck you."

The red door swung ajar.

"What was that?"

Pulse spiking, the boy swallowed. "Nothing."

Father and son made eye-contact as Clemente crouched to the boy's eye-level, voice lethally soft. "You sure 'bout that?"

Gritting his teeth, the boy spat, "I said 'fuck you.'"

He braced himself for the worst.

To his utter surprise, Clemente broke into a grin. "Watch your tongue, boy. You're starting to sound like a mobster. Now scram. Get to your lessons." Ruffling his hair in an act of rare affection, the man pushed off from his knees before pivoting sharply and closing the door behind him.

Gokudera glanced down at his test, at the "100" mark in red, at everything that made him who he was.

Drops of wetness plunked dark spots on his olive green socks.

"But I don't want to sound like you."

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Clemente rather liked the idea of being a father.

He polished the title and wore it as one wears a fedora: as an adornment and often out of the expectation that a Mafioso ought to wear one.

He treated his daughter like a princess. She walked unreservedly on the edge of the sidewalk, because all who knew her kept a respectable distance. No driver or biker would dare impinge on her space, sullying the folds of her dress as it fluttered in the breeze. She painted a pretty picture, but she also had the guts to go with the glamor.

The first man to leer at her long lashes and milky complexion soon found himself beaten to death.

Forty-seven kicks, to be exact.

She had not voiced a complaint to her father since.

If Bianchi was aware of the price at which she maintained her free-spirited ways, she never showed it. It was simple to overlook, after all. It was what she would often tell herself at dinner, glancing at the seared salmon fillet and considering how pink the flesh was. That this fish had been swimming hours earlier was of no concern to her. It had been foolish enough to be caught, or mindless to begin with. She had few qualms about admitting the truth, and even fewer about saying "I don't care."

She did care, however, about her brother.

He was an odd little thing, skinny and awkward with a formidable temper and pride to match. She was less concerned for his wellbeing as she was curious about his persona. Discovering new trivia about his pet peeves and misdemeanors amused her to no end.

On a Sunday afternoon, in taking refuge from the dry summer heat, she came across him in his study. The curtains were drawn, but the sunlight filtered through the regal red, dyeing the room a rosy hue. He was scribbling as furiously as he erased, ripping the paper and swearing up a storm. Calculations bled down the page, accompanied by various geometric shapes and diagrams. His legs hung loosely over the chair, stock still.

"What are you doing?"

The boy covered his work immediately, eyeing her with distaste. "Leave me alone."

Venturing closer, she peeked at his work from various angles as he moved to block her each time. "You look awfully busy. Why don't you take a break?"

"You said it yourself: I'm busy. Go away."

"Hmmm." She plopped onto a leather armchair and propped her chin up with one hand. "For someone so thorough, you sure aren't that observant."

Clenching the pencil with white knuckles, he bit out, "What are you talking about?"

"Well, you know." Bianchi rolled her eyes, swinging her legs back and forth over the lofty chair.

_No, I don't know, _Gokudera thought petulantly_._

"Mamma's been sick for a long time now. At least, papà says she is. She's been holed up in her room all day. I barely get to see her. What do you think's going on?"

"You have this annoying habit," he began while sharpening his pencil, "of answering your own questions." He blew lightly on the tip. "She's ill. You said so already."

"Don't you miss her?"

Gokudera considered the question. "I don't know."

"How can you not know?" Bianchi pestered. "It's a 'yes or no' question." At his uncooperative silence, she continued, "I think they had a spat, and mamma's giving him the silent treatment - you know how she is. Did you hear shouting in the hall earlier?"

"You girls like to dramatize everything, don't you?" he snorted. "The simplest solution is usually correct. For all we know, she's just unwell."

Bianchi worried her lower lip, shifting restlessly. "Papà won't tell me anything when I ask."

"Then don't ask," he said, arching an aristocratic brow. "Find out yourself."

Bianchi _hmphed _and left him to his own devices. But he couldn't concentrate; the roseate teen had successfully derailed his train of thought. He had indeed heard his father shouting earlier, and at a woman. It crossed his mind that his father could have taken his financial and emotional anxiety out on a housemaid, blaming his wife's illness on someone else's incompetence. He had been losing men recently. Waves of them returned unemployed, so the famiglia's profits had taken a blow.

But their mother cherished attention; she sought it from her children in excess. It was unlikely for her to voluntarily close her door to them. She was not so vain as to be ashamed of her sickliness in front of her family. So why had she remained absent at mealtimes? Today would mark her eighth absence.

He put down his pencil in defeat, pushing back from his desk and heading towards his mother's chamber.

Supposing Bianchi was on the right track... who was the other woman, if not a housemaid?

* * *

**Summer, 1969**  
**Sapporo, Hokkaido (Japan)**

Uneven bars were her absolute favorite.

She had always been the sort to color outside the lines—not out of carelessness, but out of caring differently. The brunette had an element of wildness in her; this was observable to even the most obtuse of people. Securing the straps of the grips around her hands, Haru shook her wrists loosely, then mounted the low bar.

The chalk on her palms and fingers ground securely against the bar, and she completed a series of front hip circles, reveling in the whip of her ponytail on her back and the heady momentum of her swing. She transitioned to the high bar from a handstand. Haru stood on the high bar, preparing for a backflip when the coach intervened.

"Haru! Get off the high bar—what do you think you're doing? A Korbut Flip? Dismount!"

The brunette reluctantly obeyed, sticking the landing on the red mat.

Adults had a way of phrasing questions—they had to add the "what do you think" before the "doing", as though you never actually _knew _what it was you were doing. Haru wondered at what age the adults would drop the prefix and get to the point, saving their time and honoring her status as a sentient being.

Granted, she had no idea if what happened would align with what she was attempting, but at the very least, she knew what she was _doing. _

Even if others didn't.

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"And I was getting ready for a backflip," Haru raved, hands waving. She was prone to gesticulation when she spoke; her hands made all sorts of emphatic motions her one-track mind couldn't explain. It was as if her entire _being _struggled to speak when she had something to say.

"Haru," her father interrupted somewhat uneasily. "I know summer vacation starts soon, but I'm curious as to what you learned in school today."

Crestfallen at being diverted in the midst of her grand retelling, the brunette mumbled, "Started learning algebra. It was boring." She kicked a rock out of her path, watching it tumble into another, sending both a little ways off the sidewalk. _Rocks can't move out of the way, because they're not alive. But I'm stuck, too. Am I not alive?_

Aghast, her father responded, "If math comes across as boring, it is the fault of bad presentation, and not the subject itself. It is every bit as beautiful as—"

"_I meant_," Haru clarified, arms akimbo, "that there wasn't any point to it. We were given stupid word problems filled with imaginary people to help them settle silly problems. Who cares if one person got eighteen melons while the other only got three?"

Laughing, Shin Miura eyed his daughter patronizingly. "They're exercises, Haru. Don't you have to do drills in gymnastics as well? It's the same concept."

"It's not the same," the girl insisted, visibly offended. "I decide what routine I want to do on the bars. But the math problem is already decided, and all it tells me is how many melons someone gets." She stopped in her tracks, eyes zeroing in on a window display across the street. Tugging on her father's sleeve, she pointed. "Let's have cake!"

"There will come a time," he spoke, adjusting his glasses, "when cake shops and backflips will thrill you no longer, and you will be worried over bigger and better things."

"I hope such a time never comes," Haru replied casually, ignoring the unsettling atmosphere and pulling her father towards the shop. "It closes in an hour..."

Grasping her petite hand firmly in his, Shin dragged his daughter back onto the sidewalk, whistling a folk tune. They passed a lush bush of periwinkle hydrangeas. Haru distanced herself from the flowers, wary of bees. Her father kept a safe distance from the curb, however, and she had little room to maneuver. She pushed outwards discreetly, but he took it as a sign of playfulness and simply pushed her back. "You'll be excited to hear what I have to tell you," he remarked brightly. "The three students I tutored in the past have been admitted to Midori! Dinner tonight will be special."

They passed a row of mailboxes.

Haru groused, "Oyaji, your cooking is terrible..."

"You don't mean that," her father jested, nudging her slightly, oblivious to her frightened cringe as she ducked under an overreaching flower.  
"We've lived off of my cooking for quite some time now, and you've never complained."

_Because you never take me seriously. _

"I was kidding," she confessed, upping the watts of her smile to blind him to the truth. "But can we have miso ramen at the new place? You said we'd try it sometime."

"Ah, but 'sometime' isn't 'today'," he reasoned good-naturedly. He patted her cheek in the manner of a judge awarding a participant a ribbon for good effort. "Tell you what—I'll give you some new problems tonight. They should challenge you more than the word problems at school."

The brunette perked up. "What problems?"

He beamed. "We'll see how you do at basic trigonometry."

_Oyaji, when we don't talk about math, we don't talk, _Haru observed. But she placed a bounce in her step anyway, because it made him laugh, and when her father was happy, he was easily distracted. The tactic became useful when he (invariably) returned to the topic of Midori Middle, and how marvelous it would be if she were to be attend the school in the future.

A future that appeared as fixed as the melon problem.

* * *

**Summer, 1969**  
**Rome, Italy**

Alonzo Brioschi had clocked out of his prison guard shift and was reaching for his car keys when he heard a man approach him from behind. The young guard immediately reached for the stun gun at his side, turning to see a silver-haired man smiling, looming several inches above.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Katsuo Kawahira coughed mildly into his fist before stating, still smiling, "You might not have a choice; but it's nice of you to be so polite." He watched impassively as the man crumpled to the ground. Checking his wristwatch, he nodded appreciatively. "Not bad. Faster than I'd thought."

After frisking the man and procuring photo identification, he proceeded to a back entrance of the Vendicare Prison.

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x

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**A/N: Feel free to ask clarifying plot questions. There will be time-skips, but they will all be labeled as they were in this chapter (date + location).**

Haru and Gokudera are both eight years old in 1969. This is not _primarily_ a coming-of-age story, but it does feature several in the process of telling a larger story. And because this is a work of AU fiction, the year 1969 is not intended to have any historical connection to the real world. It just serves as a benchmark for later time skips and sets the general atmosphere. I do, however, intend to stay true to a portrayal of historically accurate/plausible Mafia life.

And just to throw this out there: Haru's mother will be in this story. Surprise!

Feedback would be very welcome. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Thank you for reading.

Note: There are OCs, but only where necessary. (In this chapter, Alonzo is the only one. He will become crucial much later.) The first names of some known characters are subject to my artistic license, because they were not provided by the manga/anime.

**Going forward, some of the views expressed by the characters are not to be mistaken for mine. That said, please keep in mind the M rating. **


	2. Less

2 - LESS

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**Summer, 1969  
Rome, Italy**

In a cramped jail cell for one stood three prisoners: a close-shaven man of thirty-two (two counts of murder), a frizzy-haired boy of seventeen (bank robbery), and a bald cripple of unknown age. The inmates assumed he would die while serving out his term, as his favorite ad lib was: "I've been here for forever. Starts to do things to your head, you know?" There is some guesswork in forecasting, of course, but just as one can sense their shoelaces loosening, one can predict the ending of a hapless story.

Kawahira entered the chamber of cells, starting down the corridor.

"Listen, _punk, _I've been waiting for two hours for Rossi to finish up while he stank up the place. Don't think I'll go easy on ya 'cause you're a kid." He leaned in, fully aware of his dank, fishy breath (courtesy of last night's gray mullet with a side of stale bread): "Beat it. Before I beat _you_."

As it was, the boy didn't have to; the man shoved him roughly out of his way and clambered over to the urinal just as the old man clambered out, bringing with him a small cloud of flies. He laughed the wheezy laugh they associated with a leaky tire. Forcing down a surge of bile, the boy groaned, pulling his wife-beater up over his nose as though it would do any good. When he looked down, he saw that he had wet himself. Slapping a fly on his arm, he muttered, "I've had enough of this godforsaken hellhole."

From behind the screen door, he heard the man chuckle. "Join the club."

With a stoic face, Katsuo swiped Alonzo's ID and began down eleven flights of spiraling stairs, lit by glowing blue lights. He had acquired Alonzo's uniform, forgoing the change of pants as they were uncomfortably short on his tall stature. At last he came to a stop before a door that read: "Examination Room – DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT PERMISSION."

He glanced at the security camera from his peripheral vision, nodding once before swiping Alonzo's card again, entering the blindingly white chamber. Two foldable steel chairs. One steel table—cold to the touch. He passed through the next door, in which a lone light bulb dangled from the center of the room. In one corner lay an electric chair, buckles singed from overuse. In another stood a table of metal contraptions, one of which Katsuo assumed to be a device that amputated fingers. In the third corner sat a simple chair with nothing unordinary about it, aside from the splotches of scarlet blood around its legs, and a pile of ropes just to its left.

So this was the torture chamber.

He went through another door, unlocking the padlock with the key in Alonzo's breast pocket. A beam of light sliced through the darkness as he opened the fourth door. He greeted the prisoner with a winsome smile. "Long time no see, Mukuro."

The indigo-haired convict bared a feral grin, sitting up with poorly disguised difficulty. "Come for a favor, have you?"

"Seems you haven't talked yet." He took note of a missing thumb and a disconcerting scar over the boy's right eyelid. The kid was trying not to blink. "Can't have been much fun down here, hmm?"

Mukuro snorted. "If you're referring to the toys in the chamber, those are child's play."

Kawahira narrowed his eyes. "Oh? They must be going easy on you, then. Keeping you fit to drag it out longer, weaseling into your psyche."

"As heartwarming as this reunion is," he drawled, kicking back the blanket with his bare feet, "I've got better things to do. Two friends of mine need to be busted out." He raised his left arm for Kawahira to see: a thin wrist shackled to the bed.

Kawahira jingled his keys. "That'll be three favors, total."

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Some hours later, Alonzo Brioschi was found and wheeled off to the ICU.

His colleagues were perplexed when they searched his locker only to find bottle after bottle of medication and an inhaler, as they had never seen Alonzo ill before. He had, after all, never taken a day off. His superior reached in and twisted open an orange bottle of labeled antibiotics, spilling a small pile of white powder into his palm. With his index finger he dabbed a corner, bringing it up to his mouth. They exchanged looks guiltily, as if the truth had accused them of knowing it.

"Cocaine," he confirmed grimly.

They recalled Alonzo's deteriorating mood in the weeks prior: how he would decline to join them for drinks, how he would withdraw into himself, how he would be tired before the end of his shift—an anomaly for the energetic man. The quality of his work had not been compromised; he had been alert, reliable, and stern with himself and the inmates. But something in him had withered.

Still, no one really thought he'd go so far as to...

Two hours later, the blood and urine tests yielded disturbing results.

"Strychnine," the toxicologist said solemnly.

They immediately sought Alonzo's stash, sifting through the powder for any colorless crystals interspersed. They found none.

"Does he drink coffee?" the doctor asked.

"He does. We all do."

"It could be a case of poisoning; strychnine's bitterness blends well with coffee. The dosage was not nearly enough to be fatal, but it's up there." A pause, and the doctor continued, "He was moderate in his cocaine use, but it still registers in his blood, having accumulated over the weeks."

They glanced at his face on the hospital bed, strangely discolored and purple.

No one wanted to be the first to bring it up, but someone had to.

His superior went halfway. "Someone ought to contact his family."

* * *

**Summer, 1969  
Chiyoda, Tokyo (Japan)**

Hiroto Watanabe dropped his mug in terror. There was a subsequent sound of splitting ceramic, but it was the handle that broke, and not the cup itself. "They _what?_" he demanded through the telephone, glancing nervously at his desk, shuffling papers and realigning pencils. He then crouched and rubbed furiously at the puddle of green tea on the marbled flooring with a towel.

"They escaped from prison, sir, taking advantage of a guard's absence."

"Then _find _them!" he shouted at the supervisor, spitting with frenzy.

"Will you request extradition if they are found?" The convicts were Italian citizens, but born as Japanese.

Hiroto seized upon the "if" with twitching facial muscles, but chose to let it go. He was quiet for a moment. In the silence he felt the walls of his spacious office inching closer. "Yes. Please send them to Tokyo; I'll be waiting." Hanging up the phone, the commissioner general raised his fist to his forehead, crinkling his brows in deep thought. Shipping the convicts to the metropolis was either the best option or the worst, depending on how he played his cards. The police headquarters were, of course, located in Tokyo—but so were the most notorious gangs.

The recent influx of Japanese-turned-Italian Mafiosi did little to lower his blood pressure. The National Police Force (NPF) had begun collaborating with Italy's Bureau of Criminal Investigation for that very reason, but their progress had been paltry. Harsher measures were meted out against arrestees, and informing was highly encouraged. This, however, had only bolstered their resentment. The mobsters fought much like viruses: they constantly evolved.

_You want to do this the hard way? Then we'll do this the hard way. _The salt-and-pepper-haired man was not keen on torture, but information was too valuable to pass by. It was difficult to feel remorse for his decision, anyway, as the headlines would often mock his futile efforts and clamor for smarter solutions.

He laughed suddenly, brimful of scorn. _All they do is ask to be saved. They don't even know what it takes to be a savior. And why should they? They're waiting for a miracle._

The murders followed a pattern—of that he was certain. There had also been a concurrent uptick in the number of females reported missing, all in their twenties and thirties.

He ground his teeth, going limp at once when he glanced at the wooden photo frame on the corner of his desk. The pale woman in the photo smiled impishly, as though she had a scheme in mind. Her bangs mitigated the threat, however; they lent an air of purity to her expression, an essence of youth and softness. He had to beg her not to stick her tongue out at the time, given her propensity to make silly faces at cameras. _You're too serious, Hiroto, _she was fond of saying.

_One of us have to be, _was his standard no-nonsense reply.

There was nothing she could say to that, so she would walk away and leave him to sigh and dig the heels of his hands into his eyes as he was doing now, at one in the morning with dozens of crime reports on his desk.

* * *

**Summer, 1969  
Rome, Italy**

Kawahira handed three falsified passports to the Mafiosi. "Congratulations. You're free."

They were nestled in the corner of a pizza parlor, having an aperitivo (starter drinks with snacks). A jazzy tune—all base, drum brushes, piano and husky vocals—drifted in and out of hearing, occasionally overtaken by bursts of conversation.

"We're _wanted_," Mukuro corrected, sliding the Japanese passport into his pocket. Kawahira glanced at the boy's untouched nonalcoholic drink, entertained by his mistrust. "We were the only survivors of the Estraneo famiglia after the skirmishes; the cops are out for blood." Mukuro fought the urge to scrutinize each and every customer and corner, singling out the suspicious. One meaningful glance was all it took. Unfortunately, the fog of voices around him made thinking difficult. Two years of solitude had robbed him of his street ease. He found himself smirking excessively instead.

The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Out for the blood of a mere messenger boy?"

Ken growled touchily, but Mukuro held him back with a wave. "I'm surprised you have connections in Vendicare. Who got you in?"

Kawahira took a few generous sips of red wine. "You don't want to hear about that; it's a boring tale. I have _much_ more relevant news for you." He waited. Finally, Mukuro glanced up from the table with an unreadable expression. "I'm sure you've heard of the Vongola."

Ken choked on his juice. Chikusa patted his back with disproportionate force.

"Your point?" Mukuro inquired evenly. He began to reach for his drink, but abandoned the effort immediately, letting his arm drop. No thumb, no grip.

"They're willing to recruit you. Apparently your old capo went way back with a soldier of theirs."

A deep-set frown marred his features. "What's the catch?" His capo very rarely mentioned the Vongola famiglia, which made each mention an event in itself. Mukuro was known to be astute, particularly for a boy of nine years. He knew to not fear pain, but betrayal. Betrayal could be bought, threatened, and concealed—it wielded unpredictable power. He'd witnessed informers caving to pathetic cowardice, offering their brothers to save their own hides. It was his duty to report treason to their famiglias, even when they pleaded him to report instead that they had "died in action."

Betrayal could happen to anyone, anytime.

It just so happened that betrayal in the mafia often cost a life or two. Or more.

"Consider it payment." The man winked. "One down, two favors to go."

* * *

**Summer, 1969  
Sapporo, Hokkaido (Japan)**

The school bell chimed, and the students packed their belongings in a flurry. Several girls piled up behind Haru as she bent over to retrieve a fallen eraser. An especially jubilant one pounced on her back, saddling up for a (unsolicited) piggyback ride.

"_Hey_!" The brunette wobbled as her outstretched fingers swept over the eraser, missing the mark. "Miki," she huffed, "I need to return Hiro's eraser before he leaves for pottery club." The school had recently introduced a host of liberal arts programs as compensation for the heavy material previously focused on science and mathematics. As far as the children were concerned, the reforms had simply given them more opportunities to play with messy crafts.

Miki grinned wickedly, resting her chin atop Haru's head. "Better hurry then."

The tallest of them spoke quietly, with a hint of exasperation, "Just leave it on his desk, Haru."

At that moment, Hiro poked his head into the classroom. In one hand he held his glasses, in the other the fringe of his untucked shirt. He took a moment to clean the lenses before sliding it on.

"Ah! You're still here."

Miki hopped down, straightening her shirt with a few tugs. Haru triumphantly grabbed the eraser and tossed it to Hiro, who appeared alarmed as it nabbed him squarely in the jaw.

Miki snickered.

"Um... your eraser. Sorry about that." Haru felt herself coloring and barreled on, "You don't have club activities today?"

Hiro stared at the eraser like it was a foreign object, but recovered quickly. "The art club is using the kiln, so we have the day off. Why don't we all walk home together?"

They waited for a few other classmates to wrap up and started down their usual path, with Haru at the rear. She would always begin their journey at the back to avoid confronting the hydrangeas in front of her classmates, who brushed right past them and even had the audacity to swat at the occasionally persistent bee. By the time they passed the bus stop, she would be among the front few, having skipped ahead. It seemed odd to her, now that she thought about it, that no one had commented on her routine. She was not fond of being predictable, but she was bent on being able to protect herself, even if protection meant evasion.

Under a cloudless blue sky, the brunette breathed in deeply and felt at peace with herself. _How long will this feeling last?_

Glancing down the street at a four-way intersection, Haru's eyes alighted on a row of street vendors selling sundry trinkets, no doubt profiting from tourists. She felt a twinge of excitement, nonetheless, when Miki took the bait and called, "Hey, let's take the longer route today!"

The elementary students shuffled down the street when the pedestrian light flashed, coming to a stop before an array of tarps. Haru was transfixed by a display of koi, goldfish, and yellow-margined box turtles. "One thousand yen," a vendor grinned widely, scratching his belly with an air of satisfaction. "How about it, little girl?"

Without replying, Haru sank into a crouch, peering at the turtles with her hands on her knobby knees.

They were contained in a shallow blue bin, claws scraping futilely against the edge. She felt empty as she watched them struggle. Haru thought she ought to feel one way or the other—offended or smitten—but she felt nothing, only a slow burning sensation in her stomach she didn't know how to interpret.

"You know," Dai whispered in her right ear as she jumped, "They gut turtles to make medicine and soup. You should buy one for the next time you catch the flu—_hey_!"

Haru shouldered him off and stood in time to see Hiro holding up a clear bag with a single goldfish in it. He was engaged in an animated discussion with Miki. The brunette hoped with a sinking feeling that Miki wasn't thinking of buying a fish; the girl couldn't keep a potted plant alive for more than a week. (She sulkily recalled the shriveled bean sprout she'd discovered when she returned from her father's business trip in America.) Miki had complained that "it wasn't like that bean sprout was a magical one or anything," and Haru had to admit there was nothing particularly significant about the plant. She'd only wanted to show her father she could grow one successfully, as he had promised to stop holding her hand when they crossed the street if she did.

". . . kidding me? You'd have to add a dozen spices before you could swallow."

"I don't know about that," Hiro murmured dubiously, studying the fish closely. Was it dead, sleeping, or shy? "It's true that I've never heard of goldfish sashimi, but that doesn't eliminate the possibility—"

"Enough already!" Haru snapped, at her wit's end. "We should just head home." Soaking in the tension between them with discomfort, she was at once reminded of her lingering disappointment as her father dragged her away from the cake shop in the dining district. Shakily, she amended, "I... I forgot I had a dentist's appointment today—you guys go on without me, okay?"

They nodded blankly, and Miki patched the mood with a salute.

Haru ventured into a modern district that definitely did not house a dental clinic. She was certain the ramen shop had to be around here somewhere, since the buildings closely resembled those pictured in the advertisements—skyscrapers and monochrome colors galore. As the minutes passed, she grew more and more frustrated with herself for blatantly stalling the fact that she would have to go home, sit alone for several hours, and speak with her father about trigonometry over reheated Udon and the sort of tea she didn't like (but endurance builds character, Shin Miura said).

She had no reply to that, because she agreed.

But you endure something you don't like for something you like. She did not know what drinking his favorite brand of tea was for. If she asked, she would make him unhappy, and he would go on and on about Midori Middle to cheer himself up.

_Evasion will not protect me, _she realized with dismay. Lost in her thoughts, she walked into an outstretched arm and doubled backwards.

"Be more mindful of street traffic," the policewoman scolded, retracting her arm as the cars cruised to a halt before a red light. "It's safe to go now." The stout lady looked to be in her mid-thirties, but the severe bun beneath her police hat aged her.

"Thank you." Haru bowed slightly before dashing across the street, hair flying.

.

.

.

She had to budget enough time to make it back before her father noticed her absence.

He would call Chiyoko, the elderly woman next door, first. He would suck in a deep breath when she didn't answer (never picked up the phone) and bravely push aside the towering knotweed and wonders in her front yard to ring her doorbell (never opened the front door either). He would proceed to her back door through the narrow side trail and cringe away from the chickens after an aborted attempt to greet them overenthusiastically. He would rap on the rusty back door and Chiyoko would open up on the fifth knock because five was her favorite number and she had a soft spot for Shin, who happened to resemble her son, who had long passed away from heart complications.

He would go through every procedure, knowing the old lady would probably not respond to the first few. Because that was how Shin Miura did things. _"Who knows? She might surprise me and open her front door."_ The optimistic inclination manifested in the form of stubbornness in his daughter.

A daughter who had become acquainted with the eccentric woman.

Chiyoko had a passion for photojournalism. Her office faced the street, and she would often stare out the window for extended intervals, "recharging", as she liked to call it. It was for this reason that she knew precisely when Haru returned home from school each day. Sometimes she invited the girl over for tea and konpeitō, the subtly sweet rock candies.

The brunette was jolted from her thoughts when she caught a flash of white from the corner of her eye. As most of the new buildings in the district were gray monoliths, white stood out in decent contrast. Backtracking to the window, she saw that the white hair belonged to a young man—perhaps a college student—who appeared quite cross despite fervently consuming a bowl of (what looked to Haru like) absolutely _delectable_ miso ramen.

She entered, nodding eagerly to the waitresses who greeted her warmly.

One of them started to hand her a menu when she burst, "I want what he's having." Then, almost like an afterthought, "Please."

The woman chortled, confirming the order with her and handing her a wet-wipe. She settled two stools down from the white-haired man, conspicuously glancing at him every now and then. When he began muttering to himself, she blurted, "What's wrong? Um, sir."

He turned his head marginally, gaze sliding across the rest of the distance. "You tell me, elementary-schoolgirl-who's-likely-here-against-her-father's-wishes." From his observation, the state of her hair implied a _very _negligent mother. Only a father would attempt to tie such poorly coordinately pigtails out of sentimental paternity and an ineptitude with all feminine matters.

For a moment she just stared at him.

"Um..."

He said nothing, but seemed comparably calmer after her intrusion.

"I just wanted to know if you liked the ramen. Sir."

"Should've asked before you ordered, eh?" he turned to face her fully, smirking delightfully.

She tried not to pout, but it must've slipped through her control because the man laughed, and something in the cadence made her uneasy. It had not been the same sound of the laughter the waitress made. If she were to assign hues to their sounds, his was bright in the center but dark around the edges, like an optical illusion.

"Everyone wants to know," he mused, wiping his lips on a napkin with such delicate manners that she could scarcely believe he had been slurping loudly only moments before. "But do they _really_?"

"Yes!" Haru avowed, slapping a hand down on the counter. "I want to know. On a scale of one to absolutely delectable, what is your opinion of the miso ramen? Sir."

Taken aback, the man returned her stare. The thought never passed Haru's mind that perhaps he hadn't actually meant what she'd thought he meant.

"You amuse me," he remarked, sizing her up. "But you'll have to find out for yourself." He reached into his pocket to pay his bill. The young man froze, thinking, then relented, leaning closer as if to disclose a secret. "It doesn't matter if it's good, because nothing is ever good enough." His voice flattened in a decrescendo. "Nothing is ever enough. One plus one is two, but nobody ever wants just two. They're in love with infinity, because they're in love with dreaming." The coins clattered loudly on the counter surface, and he appeared shaken.

Then a practiced grin wound its way onto his lips. "But never mind that; I can tell you're a dreamer. Too bad you've woken up already. Still, it's more amusing this way."

"Wait—" she followed him to the door, drawn by something unfathomable. "What's your name? Sir."

He threw a glance over his shoulder. "You really want to know?"

"We've been over this," she declared, crossing her arms over her chest. A glimmer of _something _flickered in his eye, and she realized belatedly that she had forgotten the '_sir'_ that time. All the vague _somethings _summed up to a grand premonition in her gut, compelling her to turn back and give it a rest.

But she's too stubborn to back down.

He left her with a business card.

"We'll meet again."

.

.

.

Byakuran exited the ramen shop, setting off for his apartment at a brisk pace.

He was dressed smartly in a three-piece suit: white collared shirt, black pinstripe vest, and slacks. A sterling silver wristwatch dangled loosely from his left wrist, reading three twenty-four P.M. Entering the nondescript lobby, he ascended four flights of stairs, two steps at a time. At last he unlocked his door, slipping inside quietly. On his kitchen table were three steaming cups of black coffee, and in the chairs surrounding sat two lanky men of slim and sturdy build, both dressed for business.

"Report?"

Nosaru handed the folder to his boss. "Business isn't doing so hot in Italy."

Flicking through the files, Byakuran raked his eyes over the numbers. "Did you notice a pattern in the sources of unemployment, Nosaru?" He set the folder on the table, easing into a chair. "They're being laid off from industries the Chiavarone have a major stake in," he went on without waiting for the soldier's answer, gesturing him to sit. "Mainly cigarettes and luxury vehicles."

The closed blinds and windows induced a stuffy atmosphere, but Byakuran had an abnormally high tolerance of extreme temperatures. The cool colors in the room helped somewhat; the sleek cut of the glass table and navy blue furniture tempered the humid summer air.

"Ah, but that'll be remedied shortly." He studied his drink intently before taking a modest sip. "The Japanese government will soon be passing the controversial legislation to ban the sale of cigarettes on national soil."

Tazaru, the bulkier of the two, interjected: "But why? The health hazard hasn't gotten any worse. It'd only hurt the economy."

"It's a policy of zero tolerance," Byakuran smiled dryly. "Too many youngsters these days are taking drags before they're legal. But by banning their sale here and hiking tariffs on imports, the inconvenience will naturally create an opening for a black market."

Nosaru caught on quickly. "How'd you get the deal?"

He leaned back in the seat. "You'd be surprised at the number of scandals council members incur—endless fodder for blackmail. It polishes their reputation, too, by campaigning for discipline. But enough of that," he rose, emptying the coffee in the sink as Tazaru barely contained an unseemly guffaw (the boss had never finished a single cup of his coffee, always critiquing its bitterness or lukewarm temperature. Tazaru had added six packs of sugar once, just to gauge the man's reaction. Byakuran hadn't even touched the cup that time. Most likely he simply enjoyed messing with the poor soldier). "Why don't we send our sincerest greetings to a few old friends in the meantime? I'd like to make a trip home."

He was referring to a Tokyo gang that had long since defaulted on its loans. The Difo group lusted incontinently for all things base and addictive: gambling, prostitutes, narcotics—you name it. Their single redeeming quality happened to be their massive number, a handy tool for spreading information and the acquirement of it.

"Shall I phone Kikyo?"

"Please do."

The Millefiore assassins did not take kindly to overdue payments.

* * *

**Summer, 1969  
Palermo, Sicily (Italy)**

Heat crackled the air, and even the gentlest footfall stirred a cloud of dust. It was too early to harvest the olives, but Clemente had sent his men to check up on the groves out of habitual paranoia.

While the boss could not be termed an "honest farmer," his famiglia relied heavily on agriculture as an income. That, and smuggling narcotics, but if things went well, no one would ever hear of it. Unless they were a potential customer, of course. He was fiercely proud of having loyal clientele, whose origins spanned the rest of Italy and beyond. But he was not foolish enough to believe that his clients would unconditionally seek his products as their desirability continued to dwindle with rising costs (to compensate for recent unemployment) and increasing coastal security.

Lately, their men had been lying low, which made conducting business challenging. The mafia virtually _owned_ the cobbled streets of Palermo, but their protection rackets were only as successful as the cops were laid-back.

For now, he could rest on his laurels, content with the unhindered operation of the sulfur mines, on which he had a monopoly—the aristocrats enjoyed hunting, for which they required ample gunpowder. But it was the off-season, and there was nothing he could do to entertain himself. His temper worsened from cantankerous to downright explosive, and an unnatural stillness had settled over the household. Rumor was, the boss had shot his cooks for adding too much salt to the chicken casserole.

Bianchi examined her nails as she said, "Well, perhaps it _was_ a bit too salty."

Gokudera groaned into his folded arms on the desk. "He just wanted to use the damn gun for something; it didn't matter what it was. He's losing it, Bianchi."

Fixing her filmy gray eyes on him, she warned, "You're next, you know."

The boy lifted his head slowly. "What?"

"He'll be coming after you. He can't very well take out his anger on his wife and daughter, can he? How would that look for his reputation?"

He laughed humorlessly. "Sure, but I'm the heir. It's not like he can kill me off without severe repercussions." Gokudera felt a stab of uncertainty, however, that he would be entirely free of his father's clutches. There was no saying what the man would do—their time together was superficial and forced. On most days, the only thing bonding the boy to his father was the mafia. There was a time when he would sit quietly and listen while Gokudera played the piano, but he soon dropped his attendance to watch Bianchi sing and dance at town festivals.

Three sharp raps on the door caught their attention.

"Time for lessons," a maid chirped, addressing Gokudera. He trudged sullenly out the door, wondering why Bianchi was free to do as she pleased.

.

.

.

Later that afternoon, Gokudera was making conscious effort to not fall asleep.

The air conditioning was sufficient, but the enduring warmth made him drowsy. He managed to finish reading the passage on common business practices in the corporate world, glancing down at a list of scenarios below that asked for his reaction.

His tutor reentered the room holding two glasses of ice lemonade. "Thought you could use some refreshment," the bespectacled man articulated with a stiff smile.

He reached for the glass with a resentful "thanks."

Gokudera suddenly sat straight up when he thought he heard the sound of the piano fallboard being propped up, a deep _thump _that made his fingers twitch in anticipation. Someone was playing. Playing poorly, yes, but he would recognize the exposition of the moonlight sonata anywhere.

Why was someone playing?

A surge of possessiveness flooded him. It was _his _piano. Its keys were coated in _his _fingerprints.

The middle-aged man cleared his throat. "You've completed the passage?"

The boy turned back to the thick tome, feeling as though his limbs were blocks of lead.

Taking his nonresponse for a reply in the affirmative, the man coughed again, the gurgle sounding awfully like phlegm. "Excellent. Shall I close the door, then...?"

Feeling sick, Gokudera nodded. "What will it be today?" Upon receiving a copy of the famiglia's weekly financial report, he would re-evaluate their alliance network, citing the main sources of income for each ally just to keep tabs. He was never asked to identify their enemy—Mafiosi tacitly acknowledged this role as law enforcement at large.

The room's occupants flinched as a shrill scream tore through the hall.

Rushing past the tutor, he was out the door before the man could protest.

.

.

.

He couldn't help it; his feet sought the direction of the piano room before the direction of the scream. As he approached, he saw Bianchi glance up in surprise.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growled.

"Papà asked me to check if we need to call the tuner again," she replied without making eye contact. "You're not supposed to be here."

He took a step back, mind whirring. "Is this some kind of stupid test?"

Lowering the fallback to cover the keyboard, she smiled sadly. "If it is, you've failed."

Gritting his teeth, he sprinted down the hall to the source of the scream, fighting one of his own that ripped at his chest.

Gokudera stopped just short of the same door he had eavesdropped behind the day before. Their father had a counterintuitive way of communicating. If you were shot, you had pissed him off, and he couldn't care less about you. If you were verbally abused, you had pissed him off, but he still preferred you alive. If you were physically beaten, on the other hand, it was near certain that he loved you with all of his heart.

.

.

.

"One more," Clemente pleaded in a wavering tone, bordering on desperate. "One more son. You can have him if I've another to raise. You don't understand how nasty it is out there, Lavina. Without a blood relative running the ranks, I can't trust anyone who tries to worm his way in as a successor."

There was some movement and a dull thud as she was backed up against the wall.

"Still, I... I can't." Lowering her head, she stared at her hands, knitted together in the position of prayer. "It's... wrong."

"Wrong? You think this is _wrong?" _he spat. "I offered you the world—my hand—and you '_politely declined_.' Now you're whimpering about how I'm going about this all _wrong? _I didn't hear any complaints when you took me into your room," he added nastily. "_Are you regretting it now?"_

With fire in her voice, she hissed, "_Don't you_ _dare_ doubt my sincerity towards you. I left everything behind. _Everything. _But this is as far as I can go—"

"Everything, eh?" He gave her some breathing space, eyeing her from two paces away. Taking her hands into his, he snorted pessimistically, running his thumb over her elegant digits. "_You_ might have given up on playing, but there's a reason my son has a grand sitting in the lounge, isn't there?"

Her mouth opened and closed.

"I've only ever heard you play sad pieces... lamentations of the soul. You are obsessed with it, Lavina," he pronounced as she lifted her gaze to meet his. "You're in love with the beauty of sadness, the wretched beauty of heartbreak. It's all you've known and all you'll seek."

She didn't contradict him. He had a way of turning your own words against you.

Clemente had been growing out his Fu Manchu mustache, but made sure not to leave the edges hanging past his chin. Lavina had hated it, so he had kept it; but he kept it in good shape. He stroked his mustache now as he watched her. "Indeed, _your_ form sadness is beautiful... when it doesn't conflict with duty. I'm going to ask you one last time. Will you bore me another son?"

"No."

He struck her across the other cheek. Didn't want to bruise her too much in one area, as the woman was sculpted in the image of beauty. She had a sorrow to match her fine features, in perfect harmony with the music she so loved.

"_Damn you_," he breathed darkly from the opposite end of the room, eyes gleaming.

Gokudera knew it was time to leave.

He had frozen in shock, and had to remember how to breathe. _Another son _implied they had already conceived one, and the only son he knew of was himself. And while his mother, Mia, eschewed vanity by laughing openly and hugging too tightly, she did possess a streak of vehement jealously. Had she refrained from eating with them as a silent protest against her father's duplicity? It was not unheard for bosses to take mistresses, but it was frowned upon to treat wives distastefully.

The door opened.

Gokudera gazed up at the piano instructor, confusion etched into his face. The woman was backlit and he had to squint. "You..."

Lavina stood before her son with luxuriously disheveled hair and a heart that went to pieces.

Just as she reached out, Clemente slammed the door in his son's face, landing another blow to his mistress.

_"__What have you done?" _he roared, shaking her.

"Not enough," she murmured quietly, so that Gokudera was straining to hear. "Not nearly enough to be an adequate mother."

He knew it then.

The world closed in on him, lights dancing, pulse spastically off the charts. Memories flashed before him—memories of Mia snapping at him for no apparent reason and Bianchi silently sliding her untouched bowl of ice cream across the table, prodding him to take the first bite as some sort of pity prize. Memories of his mother smiling when she should have been fainting over the blood flowing from his knee, from his nose, from his palm. "A fist fight? My, my." And then she laughed. Of all things, she had laughed. Bianchi explained that their mother adored playing the role of a doctor and eagerly fussed over any injured creature as though it were an early Christmas present. He had sat through the discomfiting physical as she poked and prodded him, gushing sympathy. Memories of his first piano recital, on grasping the cold trophy with warm hands, searching the crowd and spotting his mother in the back row, mouth pressed into a thin line, looking thoroughly displeased. Not that he'd wanted her praise—he was confident in his ability. But it had stolen his fledgling grin from his cheeks, and his sour stomach wouldn't leave him alone on the ride home.

Memories of Bianchi's airy voice: "That's just the way she is, you know?"

Memories of Mia's recent apathy towards him, as though he'd become just another household object. The realization that he actually preferred her nastiness to her disinterest made him burn with crippling self-disgust. He could bear the burden of battle: it merely required one to push in response to a pull. He could not, however, overcome himself: if his mother did not pull, he would push all the same and end up backing over the edge of the cliff on his own accord.

Memories like ghosts, lapsing in and out of view, blurred phantoms in the night.

Haunting him.

He forced himself to move, drifting past the dining room as the kitchen hands anxiously prepared dinner in the presence of two new cooks, whose habits had yet to become the norm. Misplaced utensils and collisions were common in the first few days as the staff adjusted to the cooks (it was seldom the other way around).

"Hush! The boss would never defile the famiglia like that," a senior servant sniffed, adjusting her apron.

"What's done is done," a younger male murmured slyly. "You can't undo a lie once it's told."

Gokudera stilled.

"What're you going on about?" a stewardess demanded, curiously annoyed.

"You mean you don't know...?" he took pleasure in saying. "The _bella donna _who visits three days a year has been _seeing_ the boss—sneaking around all this time. You can't really blame the man; I mean, his wife's alright, but what's a wife when you're in want of a woman?"

"The pianist?" the stewardess scoffed. "That's ridiculous. How could he maintain an affair for three days a year?"

"Ah, but she only visits the _boy _three days a year," he leered. "She visits the _boss_ anytime he has a craving—"

"_Shut up and work!_" a chef butt in, jabbing a spoon into the man's cheek as the oil dripped down his face. "If you want to gossip, do it outside my kitchen." He promptly threw the spoon to a steward and selected a clean one, muttering about a gross waste of olive oil.

Gokudera felt like retching, but nothing came up.

The boy wasted no time getting to his room, snatching the first things that came to mind. Books, books—more books. _What the hell am I doing? _His hands shook as he settled for one and tossed the rest of Asimov's science fiction on the bed. Grabbing a pocketknife, he slipped out through the back garden to avoid any confrontations. He wasn't sure he would be able to refrain from using his knife if anyone tried to stop him. He had been raised to believe that strength was the impact of a man's fist in another's face, but his father's violent tendencies had never impressed him. If anything, they made the man all the more pathetic—a study in madness.

Was he going mad?

He did not feel mad. His tongue only felt too heavy, and his hands too clammy.

It seemed to him that a tremendous pressure had descended on his brain, a magnitude of headache that transcended pain and drove him onwards, heedlessly. It took all of his self-control to set a strolling pace when all he wanted to do was get the hell out of there. The blistering sunlight beat down on his back, and he wiped at his forehead with his sleeves, having forgotten a handkerchief.

He glanced to his pocket watch, a gift from the pianist when they first met. A gift from his... mother.

Vessels left Palermo every hour, so he would have no problem catching a ride. He would set his sights on a city with many allies, many people, and many hiding spots.

The lessons did come in handy, he had to admit.

Coins and bills bulged in his left pocket as he patted it just to be sure, swallowing with a parched throat. In just under twenty minutes, he reached the dock and hazarded a glance backward. A few fishermen lumbered up behind him, making their last run before calling it a night. He approached one cautiously.

"Excuse me sir, do you know of a means to get to Rome?"

The old man didn't spare him a glance as he hauled his cargo onto the boat, but responded not unkindly, "You're looking at it, boy. Hop on, I'll give you a ride. From the looks of ya you'll have no trouble paying for a ticket." A net of wide-eyed tuna stared back at Gokudera from the skiff, mouths gaping but unmoving.

Thankful the man didn't ask any questions, he climbed over the side of the fishing boat, steadying himself.

"It'll take some time to get there, so I hope you have accommodations for the night," the fisherman added gruffly.

"Right," the boy muttered noncommittally.

In his eight years, he had never imagined he would come across a situation quite like this.

.

.

x

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you all for your support thus far. There will be some canon overlap (e.g. Gokudera running from home) but the plot soon diverges into AU.

**Just to reiterate: DARK(ER) THEMES AHEAD. **Please read with discretion.

For future reference, the hierarchy of the mafia: Boss, underboss, consigliere (adviser), capo (captain), soldier, and associate (not a Mafioso, but an ally).


End file.
